


Welcome to the Future, Captain Rogers

by Fishercat



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Masturbation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Shrimping, Slow Build, Steve Angst, Steve Feels, Steve Has Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishercat/pseuds/Fishercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a scene at the end of <i>Captain America</i> where Steve wakes up in a fake 1940s hospital room. A beautiful redhead walks in, handles Research's screw-up poorly, and Steve flees out into Times Square to be met by Fury, who gives him the straight dope. Her helpless flailing bugged me, and I found the scene unsatisfying. This is my revisionist take on that scene, and what comes afterwards. It covers the time Steve spends offscreen learning about his new world between <i>Captain America</i> and <i>The Avengers</i>.</p><p>The redhead is a psychiatrist, competent, and assigned to help Steve acclimate to life in the future. Not a completely original character, but neither is she coming at you unadulterated straight out of the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake Up and Smell the Sound Stage

It was a lie. All of it.

  
  


> _“Morning. Or should I say afternoon?”_

> _“Where am I?”_

> _"You're in a recovery room in New York City.”_

> _“Where am I really?”_

> _“I'm afraid I don't understand.”_

> _“The game. It was from May, 1941. I know. 'Cause I was there. Now, I'm going to ask you again. Where am I?”_

> She made a face, shaking her head, and walked over to sit in the chair by the window. “Captain Rogers, please accept my apologies. May I try to explain?”

Steve eyed her warily. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you. If you're willing to tell me the last thing you remember, that'll help me know where to start. If you'd prefer not to say, that's all right. I'll do my best to explain, anyway.”

Steve shook his head. “I think I'll keep that to myself for now.”

“Fair enough. My name is Therese Durant. I work for a U.S. government agency; it's not well-known, and you won't be familiar with its name. I told you the truth – you are in a recovery room in New York. But my appearance, the way this room is decorated.. it's all as false as that baseball game broadcast.

"The last information the Army had about you was your rough location when your plane went down. Do you remember the crash?”

Steve nodded once, slowly. “Yes.”

“So you remember being in the Arctic Circle. You didn't die, obviously. You were frozen.. asleep, in the ice. For a very long time. The war is over.”

Steve's eyes narrowed. “I've been asleep in the ice for a long time, and the war is over. That's some story, ma'am. Tell me why I should believe you?”

Therese smiled ruefully. “Good point. It does sound absurd, doesn't it?

Steve just looked at her.

“Right. How about this? Give me ten minutes. Pretend you're willing to go along with my assertion. Ask me whatever occurs to you. If you still think I'm telling some cock and bull story, I'll leave, and let you figure things out on your own. What do you say?”

Steve gave her a long, disbelieving look, then glanced at her wrist. “Please put your watch on the table so I can see its face.”

She smiled, and complied. “Thanks.”

“Mm. So, how long has it been?”

She cocked her head. “How long has the war been over, or how long since your plane crashed?”

He shrugged. “Either, I guess.”

She looked at him. “The war ended in 1945.”

Steve frowned. “You're saying I've been asleep for more than two years?”

She nodded. “A lot more than two years.”

Her voice lowered. Quietly, she said, “Captain, the year is 2011. You've been asleep for sixty-nine years.”

He barked out a laugh. “Pull the other one, lady, it's got bells on.”

She glanced down, her eyes looking sad. “Remember, you said ten minutes. If you believed me, what would you want to know?”

He sobered. “Well, who won the war, then?”

“We did.”

His eyes narrowed again. “Who's 'we?'”

She gave a wry smile. “The Allies.”

"Well, good." He paused. “Two thousand eleven, huh? Is there going to be a car flying by that window?”

She chuckled. “No. There aren't any flying cars yet, although we're close. And what you see outside that window? It's a painted backdrop of a 1940s street scene, like you might see on a stage, or a movie set. I said this room, and my appearance, are false. This was all arranged to try and make the truth go down a little easier, Captain.”

She sighed, and looked sad again. “Assume for just a moment that I really am telling the truth. It's 2011, you've just been dug out of the Arctic ice, and revived in a government facility in New York. Your entire world.. every person, place, and thing you ever knew is either long gone, or drastically changed. You're a man out of time, and there are people whose responsibility it is to break that news to you. Don't you think they might want to be as gentle as they could about it? Instead of having the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes be like some terrifying scene from _Amazing Stories,_ they arranged.. this.” She gestured at the room.

“It's a lie, Captain. Well-intentioned, but a lie. And I'm truly sorry for not sticking to my guns, and taking part in lying to you. Please, will you accept my apology?”

Steve's expression shifted, from pure suspicion to uncertainty. “I.. I guess so.”

“Thank you,” she sighed. “What else do you want to know?”

He looked her over. “What did you mean when you said your appearance was false?”

“Oh. Pretty much everything about my appearance is different than what's usual for me. My clothes, shoes, hair, makeup.. this isn't what I looked like when I left home this morning. If I had been dressed like this when I left home, I would have gotten a few doubletakes.” She smiled. “Only a few, though.. this _is_ still New York; it's not easy to surprise folks in this city. Also, I'm a brunette, not a redhead.”

“What did you look like this morning?”

“Would you like to see?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, give me a moment. I'll be right back.”

She got up and walked out into the cavernous sound stage.

Steve immediately got up from where he was sitting on the bed, and leaned out the window, looking to each side. He paled, and shakily sat down on the chair, scrubbing his face with his hands.

Phil Coulson walked up to Therese. “You're doing very well, Dr. Durant. Great recovery. You were right. We should have played it straight with him from the start, but you've managed to salvage the situation. I'm sorry we didn't trust your instincts.”

“Thanks. Will you get me a printout from the security cameras' capture of my entry this morning, please?”

“Already on it.”

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “What was I thinking? Of course you are. Just knock and bring it in when it gets here, okay?”

Coulson nodded, and, somewhat awkwardly, patted her on the shoulder. “Relax. You really are doing well. You were the right person for this job.”

Therese smiled shakily. “Thanks, Agent Coulson, I appreciate the reassurance. This.. situation is way beyond my area of expertise.” She took a deep breath, then turned and walked back inside, closing the door behind her.

“All set, Captain. Someone will bring us a photograph of my entry into the building this morning very shortly. You'll be able to see what I usually look like.”

Steve looked up at her. “I know.”

“You know?”

“I looked out the window. And I could hear you and.. Agent Coulson talking.”

Therese quickly walked over and squatted in front of him, taking his hand and looking up into his face. “Captain Rogers. Steve. Are you okay?”

He looked away, and pulled his hand back, briefly dashing the back of it against his eyes. “No ma'am, I'm really not. But I will be.”

She smiled, and patted him on the knee. “You know, I think you will. I'll do everything I can to help.”

Coulson knocked once, then entered, handing Therese a sheet of paper. She smiled up at him as she reached for it, and said, “Thanks.” He nodded, and left.

She gave the printout to Steve, then got up and went to sit at the foot of the bed, curling one leg under her.

He looked briefly at the photo and then at Therese, then turned his attention back to the paper, examining it carefully. He gave her a long look.

“What?” she asked.

“I've never seen a photo on regular paper like this before. You people take color photographs of everyone entering the building every day?”

“Oh. Not exactly. It's more like there's a movie camera running at the entrance all day, filming everyone who goes in and out.”

“A movie camera. A movie camera with color film.”

“Something like that, yes.”

He nodded slowly, glancing away. He leaned over and handed the printout back to her.

They sat there silently for a bit while the wheels turned loudly in his head. Therese watched Steve, who mostly looked at his knees. Suddenly, the silence was broken by the loudest belly rumble either of them had ever heard. Therese's lips twitched. Steve flushed.

“Right. You must be ready to eat a horse! I was briefed about how the serum affected your metabolism, and it's been 69 years since your last good meal.”

Steve's ears started turning red, and the blush extended down his neck, but he still smiled a bit, saying, “It's been a lot longer than that, ma'am.. I was in the Army.”

She laughed, then stood, gesturing with her head. “C'mon. Let's get you fed. You're going to enjoy this.”

Steve got up, still smiling, and quirked an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

“Yup. No rationing, and _lots_ more choices than you're used to.”

“Sounds good. Although, honestly, like you said, I probably wouldn't turn down a Silver steak about now.”

Therese frowned, her head cocked. “A silver steak?”

“Hi-Yo, Silver.. awaaaaay!”

Dawn broke. “Right. Silver.. _The Lone Ranger_.” She smiled, “It took me a minute. I haven't seen that since I was a kid.”

Steve looked puzzled. “ _Seen_ it? They made movies?”

Therese rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Um, yes, they did.. sorry. I'm getting way ahead of myself.” She looked at him, and then down at her own clothes, thoughtfully. “You know, the way we're both dressed is going to get us more attention than might be comfortable if we just head down to the cafeteria. Would you like to take a few minutes to change, or shall we get some food sent up here?”

Steve frowned, and his belly rumbled again. “Um.. both, I guess?”

She nodded, opening the door. “Okay.”

Coulson walked in. “What do you need?”

Therese eyed Steve, who was looking at Coulson. “Of course. Where are my manners? Captain Steve Rogers, Special Agent Phil Coulson.”

The men smiled and nodded at each other; Steve politely, and Coulson shyly, as they shook hands. They spoke simultaneously, “It's an honor to..”

“Nice to meet..”

They all laughed, and Steve spoke firmly. “It's nice to meet you, sir.”

Coulson smiled again. “It's a real pleasure, Captain. Now, what can I get you?”

Steve grinned. “Horse?”

Therese smiled, Coulson chuckled. “I think we can do a little better than that. But I understand.. you're not picky?”

Steve shook his head. “Not at all. As long as it doesn't fight back, I'll eat it.”

Coulson smiled. “Doctor Durant? Any suggestions?”

Therese looked up in thought, then gave Steve an assessing glance. “Yes. Start with lots of nice comforting carbs, plus some fat and protein. Let's say, two cups of oatmeal with a quarter cup of butter and half a cup of brown sugar on the side, a banana, an apple, and a quart of whole milk.”

Coulson nodded, “Got it,” and left.

Therese smiled at Steve. “Hopefully, that should tide you over long enough for us to get changed, and then we can head down to the cafeteria and you can choose whatever you want. I can give you a tour of the public areas of the building after that, if you like.”

“Yes, I would. Thank you, ma'am.”

She winced.

Steve cocked his head. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Not really.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That wasn't a 'nothing's wrong' face.”

She smiled ruefully. “True.”

“And?”

“Customs of polite behavior have changed since the 1940s. A lot. "Ma'am" and "sir" are used much less often than they used to be. I'd use those terms as a sign of great respect; perhaps if I were meeting a very senior scientist in my field. I'd also address a stranger much older than me that way. That's why I made that face. I'm a bit older than you, and I associate the word "ma'am" with old ladies." She shrugged.

"Wait a minute. How can you possibly be older than me? I was born over 90 years ago."

Therese looked at him. "Sure you were. If you're figuring your age based on your date of birth, you're 94. But you were.. what, 26, when your plane went down?"

Steve nodded. "That's right."

"So you've got 26 years of life experience. Technically, you're 94. But for all practical purposes, you're 26. And I'm 33. That's enough older than you for me to notice it and wince a little when you call me "ma'am," she said with a wry grin.

Steve frowned, rubbing the short hair at the nape of his neck. “So, what _should_ I call you? You're a gorg.. " He cut himself short, blushing. "Well, you're sure not an old lady, and making you feel like I think so.. that's dumb, and rude. I don't want to do that.”

Therese smiled at him. “I know you didn't mean anything of the sort. You were just being polite according to the way you were brought up. It's my fault. I really do know better. Look, if you're willing to work with me, we're probably going to be spending a lot of time together for a while, so I can help you get up to speed. I generally keep things on a first-name basis at work.. is that all right with you?”

Steve nodded, frowning. Hesitantly, “Sure.”

She glanced at him inquringly. “You know, it's okay if using first names doesn't feel right to you. We can keep it more formal if you want.”

He shook his head. “No, that's not it. First names are fine. Just.. you mentioned meeting 'a senior scientist' in your field. What exactly _is_ your field? And why would a doctor be assigned to helping me get up to speed instead of, say, a history teacher?”

“Excellent questions.” Therese looked him square in the eye. “I'm a psychiatrist, and I picked up a lot of history as a kid; my family is full of historians. I've done a lot of work with people who've experienced traumatic events, and I'm interested in learning about different cultures. That's why the brass figured I'd be a good choice to help you out. Are you comfortable with that? We can find someone else, if you'd prefer.”

Steve looked at her. “A psychiatrist,” he said dryly.

“Yes.”

“You think I'm going to crack up.”

“No. Not at all. No one thought that before you woke up and talked to me, and my professional opinion, if you want it, is that you're smart, stable, and suspicious. If I were in your position, I'd be suspicious, too; it's perfectly reasonable. You're going to get through this just fine.”

“Then why do I need a psychiatrist?”

“You don't. A teacher would be an excellent choice, too. There just aren't any of those on staff, although there probably are people that have  clearance and an interest in the 1940s, who'd also be a good fit. Shall we start reconsidering the other candidates?”

“I didn't say that. I'm just.. not sure I believe you about why they thought you were the right choice instead of someone else.”

“I told you customs have changed.”

“Yes.”

“So have attitudes towards psychotherapy. It's very common now. Roughly one in five Americans will receive mental health care at some point in their lives. There's still some stigma attached to severe mental illness, but simply seeing a therapist? No one cares. If they don't see one, they know ten people who do.”

“So, when you said we'd be 'working together,' that's what you meant? Me lying on a couch telling you about my mother?”

Her lips twitched, trying to suppress a smile. “No. Nothing like that.”

Steve glared. “What's so funny?”

She smiled. “I'm sorry. It was sort of a professional joke to me. The approach to therapy you described is pretty much a cliché now. And it's about as far from the way I work as you can get. Besides, based on our conversation so far, I don't think you especially need therapy. Certainly not yet. Before anything else, you need to get a handle on what the world is like now. Then you can start figuring out how you're going to fit into it. That's going to take time, and information. Really, anyone can give you those.”

“Then why you?”

“I already told you. I've got clearance, the background, an interest, and,” she smiled wryly, “my job basically boils down to helping people feel more comfortable. You're in a very difficult situation no one has ever had to deal with before, and there's a decent chance that having me available as a resource may make that a lot easier on you than it would be otherwise.

"It's not unreasonable to think of me, or whoever ends up helping you, as a tour guide to life in the twenty-first century.”

Steve presented dubious eyebrows, and, “A tour guide.”

“Uh-huh. That's the best analogy I can come up with for what I meant by 'working with you.' I'll show and tell you things, you'll ask me whatever you want to know, and I'll answer you as best I can. I also know at least two historians whose fields of interest coincide with the years you need to catch up on. I can ask them to recommend some reading material, if you like.”

Steve took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

Coulson knocked once, then let himself in with a tray full of breakfast. He handed it to Steve, who smiled, and said “Thank you. That looks great.”

Coulson nodded, “You're welcome, Captain,” then used his eyes to ask Therese for guidance.

“Steve, I'm going to go change into my own clothes, and see if we can rustle you up something to wear that'll blend in with the cafeteria crowd a little better than what you've got on. Would you rather have Coulson keep you company while you eat, or would that feel a little too much like feeding time at the zoo?”

Steve looked torn between not wanting to appear impolite, and desperately wanting to fall on the tray of food. He stared at the steam escaping the lid over his bowl of oatmeal and swallowed. “I don't think I'll be very good company,” he muttered.

Coulson smiled. “I'll be just outside if you need anything, Captain.” He and Therese left.

“Can you see to having something brought up for him while I go change?” Therese asked as they walked.

“Sure. What should we give him?”

“Huh. Maybe a sweater or sweatshirt? There's nobody in this building built like that. I would have noticed.”

Coulson's “Mm,” couldn't have been milder, but was enough to make her blush.

“Anyway,” she continued, pretending oblivion, “wardrobe's not going to have any business wear just lying around that'll fit those shoulders _and_ that waist. So, something stretchy, not tailored.”

“Right,” Coulson agreed. “I'll see what I can do.”

 She nodded, with a "Thanks," and left.


	2. Ch.. Ch.. Chaanges.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Therese change clothes, have lunch, think thinky thoughts, and Notice Each Other. Steve finds the implications of what Coulson says disturbing, and disapproves. Steve is uncomfortable using the most important phrase to learn in a new language. His tour of the campus begins.

Hastily getting her hairstyle and makeup back to normal in the restroom nearest her office, Therese replayed her conversations with Steve. She remembered that he'd overheard her speaking with Coulson the first time she left him alone, and winced, then made a face at herself in the mirror.

  
_Shit. He must've heard you both times –  he'll know what you said about how he's built. Why couldn't you have remembered that before?? Grr. Oh, well. Nothing you can do about it now, except apologize for embarrassing him, if he mentions it. Which he won't. Probably. I hope. Now how are you going to deal with your attraction to.._

  
“Oh, hey, Maria.” She smiled, tucked her comb back in her purse, and left, making a mental note to discuss the issue with her therapist.

 

~

  
Coulson visualized the male staff,  considering which ones were closest in size to Steve Rogers, then put in a call to the wardrobe department. “Hi, Mitchell. Coulson here. Do you have any stretchy sweaters that would fit Hernandez? Of course.” He waited. “Excellent. Oh, the blue. Great. I'll send Sanders down to pick it up,” he said, nodding at the agent in question. “Thanks very much.”

 

  
~

  
Steve put the tray on the table, and tried to eat slowly. The banana's texture surprised him – he'd never had one before, and wasn't sure he liked it. The food was helping; he had been starting to get dizzy. That wasn't a new sensation for him, but it was a lot more intense with his new body than it had been as a kid. Hunger wasn't something he could just ignore anymore. His thoughts whirled like deck chairs in a hurricane, and he concentrated on the familiar sensations of eating to calm himself as he tried setting them in order.

  
_**Ohhh, Peggy**.. My beautiful, strong Peggy.. she must have thought I died.  Did she marry? Is she still alive? Can I find her? What would I say to her? What about my men? Did they make it through the war okay? God.. what am I going to **do**? What is this place, anyway? A “U.S. Government agency that's not well-known,” huh? If that doesn't mean spies, I'm Carmen Miranda. What do they want with me? I am NOT going to be a lab rat. And what about that lady shrink? There's no way they didn't choose such a gorgeous dame on purpose to make me feel.._

  
Coulson knocked once, and walked in, carrying a sweater. He handed it to Steve, saying, “Here you go, Captain.”

  
Steve accepted it, saying, “Thank you, sir. Er.. Agent Coulson,” and tugged the sweater on over his head.

  
Coulson shook his head. “'Sir' is not a problem for me, Captain. I was in the service. Call me whatever you're comfortable with.”

  
Steve gave Coulson a sharp look while tucking the sweater in to his pants. “I guess this room is bugged, huh?”

  
Coulson smiled slightly, and mildly said, “Just an ordinary precaution, Captain.”

  
“Against what?”

  
“SHIELD takes care of its people, Captain Rogers. We had no way of predicting how your time in the ice would have affected you, or how you'd react to learning about it. Part of the reason Dr. Durant was chosen is that we thought you extremely unlikely to hurt a woman, even if you were inclined to violence. But we couldn't be certain, and she's not a field agent. She's had only the bare minimum of self-defense training, and wouldn't have been able to protect herself effectively if something had gone wrong. So, we listened.”

  
Steve looked horrified. “I'd never..!!” he spluttered.

  
Soothingly, Coulson replied, “I know. I never thought that you would. Neither did anyone else, or you'd never have been left alone with her. But human beings are complicated and unpredictable, so listening in seemed like a reasonable compromise between Dr. Durant's safety and your comfort.”

  
Steve shook his head. “If you had any doubts at all, you should never have put her in harm's way.”

  
Coulson gave a small smile. “Things have changed, Captain. The risk was deemed minimal, and acceptable. Besides, she volunteered.”

  
Steve gave him a cold look. “When did it become acceptable to put civilians at risk?”

  
Coulson opened his mouth to reply.

  
“Never mind – I'm not sure I want to know.”

  
“Not sure you want to know what?” Therese asked, as she entered the room.

  
“Never mind, ma'a-- uh, Therese. It's not important.”

  
She smiled at Steve, and shot a curious glance at Coulson, who shook his head slightly. “Okay. Well, there's enough you _will_ want to know about to keep me hopping. Shall we head down to the cafeteria? I haven't had lunch yet, and I'll bet you're still hungry.”

  
~

  
Steve held the door for her, and watched as she preceded him through it.

  
_Those pants are weird and ugly, but jeez, they show off her keister! Do nice women really wear such revealing clothes in public now? Ugh. Dummy. Obviously, they do. You're just going to have to learn how to not get caught staring._

  
Therese swore to herself as she passed Steve in the doorway, and felt the warmth coming off of him.

  
_Oh, hell. Whose bright idea was it to put him in a blue v-neck?? That t-shirt is like a spotlight on his face, and the sweater's the same damn color as his eyes. And it looks so soft.. damn. I am so very, very screwed._

  
~

  
Steve asked short questions and chewed quickly. Therese replied at length and chewed slowly, but she still finished eating long before him. She kept sipping water and chewing idly on her coffee stirrer to keep him from getting self-conscious while he ate. And ate. And ate.

  
“Better now?” she asked, as he pushed back from the table with a sigh.

  
“Yes, much, thanks. You weren't kidding about the food.”

  
She smiled. “Yeah, and this is just a cafeteria. An unusually good cafeteria, but it's still institutional cooking. New York's a fabulous place to be if you're an adventurous eater. The culinary arts have come a long way since the 1940s. Not to say that there isn't an awful lot of truly wretched food out there, too, but it's easy to avoid.

  
“Are you ready for that tour now?”

  
Steve turned red and fidgeted. “Um..”

  
Therese eyed him curiously for a moment, then slapped her forehead. “Of course. C'mon. It's this way.”

  
At the men's room door, she said, matter-of-factly, “The toilets flush automatically. I imagine the urinals do, too. In case there's no one inside to watch.. the soap is liquid, and will be in pump dispensers over the sink. Hold your hands under the faucet, and warm water will come out. You may have to move them back and forth a bit before it turns on. The shiny metal box on the wall is like an electric hair dryer. Press the big round button, then rub your hands in the stream of warm air to dry them off. Don't be startled; it's loud. It'll turn off by itself, so if your hands are dry before it does, you can just leave.

  
“I'm going to go, too, so if I'm not here when you get out, just wait for me. I won't be gone long, but that's one thing that _hasn't_ changed: women still take longer than men.”

  
Steve, blushing once again, chuckled. “Nice to know _some_ things haven't!”

  
~

  
He came out of the men's room shaking his head.

  
_Well, I if I still had any doubts, they're gone now. Shoot, they should've just shown me the can! I'd have believed 'em!_

  
He didn't have to wait long for Therese, who grinned at the expression on his face as she exited the restroom and they started walking. “I know. It's weird, right?

  
“When I was about ten and my grandmother was in her eighties, I thought about all the change she'd seen; how much different the world was then from what it had been like when she was growing up. I remember thinking that the changes of a lifetime took a lifetime to get used to, and how terribly confusing it would be for someone to experience them all at once.”

  
Steve looked at her. “You thought that when you were ten?”

  
Therese flushed. “Um, yeah. I think I had been reading time-travel stories. I liked science fiction. Still do, actually.”

  
He nodded.“Smart kid.”

  
She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. Luck of the draw. I am smart. But I'm clumsy, and a rotten shot. I worked my butt off practicing for the self-defense and weapons tests everyone who works here has to pass, and I just barely made it.” She shrugged again. “No one can be good at everything. It's just a question of knowing where your talents lie, and deciding how much effort you want to spend on improving what.

  
“When I'm done showing you around, there are a couple of people who'd like to meet with you, if that's okay.”

  
“I suppose so. Do you know what they want?”

  
“Not all of it, but I'm pretty sure they'd like to offer you a job.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carmen Miranda was a movie star in the 1940s; she was nicknamed "The Brazilian Bombshell" and known for her hats piled high with fruit.


	3. Meet & Greet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Steve. Welcome to SHIELD, where everyone's a BAMF, and the shrinks' offices will surprise you. Wanna come play?

Therese and Steve stood watching outside the window to the target range. There were four people shooting: two with pistols, one with a rifle, and an archer at the far end of the range. The range master came out of her booth as the rifleman ran his target back. She gestured, and he followed her towards the booth, where they both pulled off their ear protection and spoke while looking over the target.

 

“Would you mind if we head inside? I need to speak to him for a minute,” Therese said, nodding towards the only man still shooting.

 

“Not at all,” said Steve.

 

They went in. Therese handed Steve a pair of earmuffs from the bin just inside the door, and settled her own on her head. He put his on, and they walked down the alley behind the shooting line to the end lane. Steve looked around with interest as they went. As they approached the archer, Therese smiled, and gave him a little wave to get his attention. He carefully lay down his bow, then nodded at both of them, but his smile was for Therese. She gestured toward the empty observation booth nearby, and he nodded again, heading inside. Therese stretched up on her toes to speak loudly near Steve's ear through the muffs.

 

“Can you give us just a minute? This won't take long.” Steve gave her a thumbs-up. She smiled her thanks, and went inside.

 

Therese poked Barton's arm gently, saying “Hey, you. Rumor has it that a certain raptor doesn't have Psych clearance to get back to fieldwork yet. Why haven't you come to see me?”

 

Clint gave her the “duh” look. “I tried to schedule an appointment yesterday after Medical cleared me, but your calender's not showing any open time at all for the next three months. I didn't know what was up.”

 

“Huh. Sorry.. that wasn't my doing. I'll make sure to clear some slots. You know, I did mean it when I said I'd always have time for you, Clint. If something like this happens again, just call or text me. I know how much you hate not being able to get back in the field.”

 

“Okay. Thanks, I will. So, what's the story with tall, blond, and wholesome?”

 

“Long, and not mine to tell. I'll introduce you if you promise to be nice, but you'll have to harass Coulson for the details.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Clint wheedled, fluttering his eyelashes outrageously, “Tellme, tellme, tellme. You know I'm your favorite.”

 

She chuckled, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “You're ridiculous. Besides, you know I can't, dude. Professional ethics and HIPAA trump the Law of Workplace Gossip, any day of the week.”

 

Barton stuck out his tongue. “Spoilsport. Okay, fine. Introduce me. Maybe I'll get it out of him.”

 

“Grilling the man does _not_ count as 'being nice', Barton.”

 

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. I'll be good. But you are officially No Fun.”

 

“And don't you forget it!” Therese grinned and shook her head, then waved at Steve through the window to get his attention. When he looked up, she made the “come here” gesture, and he did, pulling the earmuffs off as he entered the booth.

 

“Hi, Steve. Thanks for waiting. I'd like to introduce you to Agent Clint Barton. Clint, this is Captain Steve Rogers.”

 

They shook hands.

 

“Nice to meet you, Agent Barton.”

 

“Hiya.”

 

“I couldn't help noticing your target – that's really impressive shooting, especially for a hobby.”

 

Barton bristled, and opened his mouth.

 

Therese spoke hastily, heading off disaster. “Steve, Clint is the best shot anyone here has ever seen. If it's a projectile weapon, he can shoot it, but the bow is his preferred weapon.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially, sending a mischievous glance at Clint. “Honestly, I even think he's named her.”

 

Steve blushed, and apologized. “Gosh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it.”

 

Barton, offense successfully diverted by Therese's teasing, chuckled and said, “Hey, don't worry about it, man. You had no way of knowing I take the bow seriously.”

 

Steve looked thoughtful as he said, “I did, though. I _saw_ the way you put it down. You handled your bow like a weapon, not a toy. Anyway, I'm sorry it didn't really register at the time. I didn't meant to offend you.”

 

Barton's eyes widened slightly as impressed surprise flashed across his face. “None taken. Forget about it.”

 

“Okay, we should get going. I'll see you later, right, Clint?” Therese reminded him.

 

“You know it, beautiful.”

 

“Nice to have met you, Agent Barton.”

 

“Same here. But, hey.. call me Barton. 'Agent' just makes me think I'm in trouble again.”

 

Steve smiled. “Will do. So long.”

 

~

 

As they walked along the corridor, Steve opened his mouth to speak three or four times, before shutting it again without saying a word. While they waited for the elevator to arrive, he did it once more. Therese, amused, smiled up at him. “What?”

 

“Hm? I didn't say anything.”

 

She raised her eyebrows. “I know. But this is the fifth time you started to. There's clearly something on your mind. What are you trying to figure out how to say?”

 

He turned pink, and looked studiously at the LCD floor indicator. “Oh. Um. I was just wondering if you and Barton are.. ”

 

“Friends. And colleagues,” she said firmly.

 

Steve's blush deepened. “Oh. I thought you might be sweethearts. You wanted to stop to talk to him, and then the way he said goodbye.. it seemed kind of..”

 

Therese smiled. “Flirty?”

 

“Yes!” Steve said, sounding relieved that he didn't have to supply the word.

 

She chuckled. “Yeah, well, Barton flirts the way other people breathe. It's fun, but he doesn't mean anything by it. Or, rather.. he does it so indiscriminately that no one takes his flirting seriously. I guess it's partly his way of blowing off steam, but I'm not sure how he'd ever manage to convince anyone around here if he really was interested in them.”

 

“Then how do you know he's not interested in you?”

 

Therese opened her mouth briefly, then shut it, looking thoughtful. After a short pause, she said, “I'm certain that he isn't, but.. I guess the simplest way to put it is that you don't have clearance for me to discuss _how_ I know it with you.”

 

Steve blinked, and nodded. “Okay.” Then he frowned as the elevator arrived and they got in. “Hey. Was I just very politely told to mind my own beeswax?”

 

Therese grinned. “Only sort of. I don't think anything you've asked me is rude; the restriction on that topic is professional, not personal.”

 

“Oh. All right.”

 

“Relax, Steve. You haven't stepped on anyone's toes.”

 

~

 

Steve looked around the gym in stunned fascination. The agents wearing ear buds and preparing for their workouts by strapping on pulse monitors and punching in their preferences before starting the treadmills got a particularly long look.

 

“What is _that_?” he asked, pointing at an unoccupied elliptical.

 

“It's called an elliptical trainer or machine. Sometimes, just 'an elliptical.' It feels a bit like a cross between climbing stairs and cross-country skiing. Here, I'll show you,” Therese said, climbing on. “They're excellent for your heart and lungs, and they work pretty much all the big muscle groups, but because of the sliding motion, they're easy on the joints. Want to try it?”

 

“Maybe later,” he said distractedly. Steve's attention was caught by the four people stepping onto one of the mats.

 

Therese stepped off as the machine came to a halt, then gave a short laugh. “Too bad we don't have any popcorn. This is going to be good.”

 

“Oh?” Steve looked like he was considering interfering in what was about to happen.

 

“Uh huh. Those guys are baby field agents, and the woman is Natasha Romanov. She has a completely warranted reputation for being deadly, and I'm willing to bet _they've_ made a bet with her that she can't take all three of them at once. Just watch.”

 

They watched.

 

The smallest of the men had at least three inches of reach and fifty pounds on the redhead. All three of them moved gracefully, with strength and confidence. Romanov moved like gravity was her bitch. She danced with them for about twenty minutes, slipping out of their grasps time and again, gliding in to land a blow, or redirect their momentum and send them crashing into each other.

 

When all three men were sweating, panting, and flushed, she took them down. Two of them went down at once. She tangled them together with their shirts, then took the third one down in a head lock. Preferring to breathe, he tapped out, and rolled off the mat, chest heaving. The other two separated and rose wearily, preparing to go at it again. The taller one leaned over panting, with one hand raised. He spoke briefly, then rushed off the mat, but didn't quite manage to make it out of the gym before vomiting. The last one shook the sweat out of his eyes, and bent in a wrestler's crouch, hands up, prepared to defend himself. Romanov smiled slightly, shook her head, and spoke quietly before dropping him with a kick to the gut that knocked the wind out of him.

 

She left the mat, speaking briefly to the one who'd tapped out, then headed over to an unoccupied treadmill and got on. She hadn't done any cardio yet.

 

~

 

 

On their way to show Steve what a modern office looked like, he asked, “How did she learn to do that?”

 

Therese glanced downward, her expression troubled. “You really don't want to know.”

 

~

 

She slid her badge into the slot and opened the door to her office. The lights went on as they walked inside. Steve was startled, and looked around quickly to see who had flipped the switch.

 

Therese smiled at him. “People who aren't paying for the electricity themselves often don't bother to turn lights off when they leave a room. This kind of switch is designed to save power. It responds to moving heat sources. The lights go out after 10 minutes with no motion.”

 

“Do they ever go out if you're just sitting still?”

 

“I think it's happened once or twice when I was very deep in thought, and I've had this office for four years. Mostly, though, people fidget, so it's not a problem.

 

She gestured.“Make yourself at home. I just need to fix something with my calendar, and then I'll be right with you.” Therese settled herself at her desk and began doing interesting but mystifying things with her computer.

 

Steve glanced around, taking in the room. Therese's desk was small, oddly flimsy looking, and placed like it was an afterthought. She was in two of the color photos displayed on the top. One of them was a sunny outdoor shot; she was on her back in the grass, laughing and disheveled, trying vainly to keep a huge dog from licking her face. In the other one, she sat on a couch between two older ladies and a younger girl, with her arms around their waists. The two older women were holding hands. They all strongly resembled each other, and were smiling, but there was a touch of sadness around their eyes the photographer had managed to capture. The more Steve looked at it, the more he wanted to know the story behind their eyes. He finally turned away, feeling like he'd been eavesdropping.

 

Therese made an unsatisfied sound, and picked up the phone. “Hi, Jim. What's up.. why did you clear my calendar?”

 

Steve could hear the other side of the conversation clearly.

 

“Sorry, Therese. Fury insisted, once you accepted your current assignment.”

 

She growled. “That figures. Okay, I'll deal with it. But if he pulls something like this again, will you please let me know first, rather than just going along with him? I'm going to have to restore my regulars from backup, and that's a pain.”

 

“Absolutely. I really am sorry. You know how he is.”

 

“I sure do.. it's okay, no worries.” She hung up, and started typing again.

 

The floor was covered in thin beige wall-to-wall carpet. Steve chalked up such ugliness in a luxury item to changing tastes. There was also a large rug on the floor with a weird abstract pattern – he couldn't decide whether or not he liked it, but the colors worked.

 

There were a couple of framed Ansel Adams posters, some bookshelves, a few plants hanging from the ceiling, and a pile of big cushions in various shades of red over in a corner near a huge ottoman with a fuzzy red blanket thrown on top. There was also a delicate mobile hanging from a vent near the bookshelves; it started to move when the ventilation system turned on.

 

Two cavernous, chocolate brown armchairs angled to face each other formed the focal point of the room. Within reach of both stood a lacquered sea chest. It held a box of tissues, and a collection of small objects Steve didn't recognize; what looked like a misshapen red rubber ball, a brilliantly silver disc with strange patterns etched into its surface, and a black frame holding five shiny metal balls in the center, suspended from thin wires. There was also what looked like a small brass mortar with a wooden pestle nestled on a tiny cushion of embroidered red silk.

 

Notable by their absence were windows, a couch, and a clock.

 

Steve walked over and gently tapped the mobile just before Therese looked up. “There, that's done,” she said. “So, what do you think?”

 

“It's.. friendly looking, and I like the colors. It doesn't seem very much like an office, though.”

 

She smiled broadly. “Oh, I'm so glad! That's exactly the effect I was aiming for. I spend so much time in here that I filled it with things I love, but I was hoping other people would find it inviting, also.”

 

Steve smiled back at her. “Well, I like it.” He gestured at the chest. “What's with the weird ball?”

 

She popped up from her chair,walking over to pick it up and hand it to him. “It's a twiddle, like most of the rest of those toys.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Squeeze it gently.”

 

He did. “It's squishy.”

 

“Yup. They're fun to play with. It's basically a couple of small balloons filled with sand. Some people use them for stress relief, others use them for hand exercises.” She demonstrated the use of the other toys.. flicking the holographic disc to set it spinning, setting the balls on the Newton's cradle clacking from side to side, and rubbing the bowl with the dowel to start it singing, then striking it gently for the chime.

 

Steve looked delighted. “Wow.. what a beautiful sound.”

 

“Isn't it? That's actually not a toy. I use it in my work.”

 

“Hypnosis?”

 

“Occasionally. More often, it's used for meditation.”

 

“Like monks?”

 

“Like some monks – it depends on what religion you're talking about. The meditation techniques I teach and use in my work are borrowed from Buddhist traditions, not Christian.”

 

“You teach your patients religious stuff?”

 

Therese smiled. “I teach the people I work with lots of different methods for changing states of mind. Some of them have an historically religious basis, but there's no one belief system I set above the rest, other than my faith that people have the ability to change themselves.”

 

Steve started to say something, then stopped. He looked at her.

 

She smiled invitingly. “Go ahead. Remember, I'm here to answer whatever questions you've got. And if I don't know, I'll try to find out for you.”

 

He looked uncomfortable. “Why does a spy agency need psychiatrists? What do you do for them?”

 

She drew in a deep breath, and let it out with an, “Oof. Those are good questions, but not simple to answer.” She smiled. “Huh.. I guess that's part of what defines a good question.” She curled up in one of the armchairs. “This may take a while.. why don't you have a seat?”

 

~

 

Twenty minutes later, Therese asked him, “Are you ready to speak with the folks who wanted to meet with you now?”

 

He nodded. “I guess so.”

 

“Okay, I'll let them know we're on our way up.”

 

~

 

“Hi, David. I just need a quick word with him first.” Therese said cheerfully, swiftly walking past the man seated outside the office door, before knocking once and entering. The fellow at the desk looked uncomfortable, but didn't stop her.

 

She closed the door behind her, but once again, Steve was able to hear what was going on, although it was much more muffled than before.

 

“Doctor Durant. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?” Director Nick Fury turned his eye on her.

 

She looked back at him. “Thank you for asking. You can refrain from interfering with my schedule again.”

 

“Doctor, you volunteered for this assignment, and accepted it. Assisting Captain Rogers in getting settled is your **only** priority.”

 

Therese raised her eyebrows. “Director Fury, you are truly a marvel. I'm amazed.”

 

“Oh?” said Fury, recognizing a shot across his bows when he heard one.

 

“Yes. You're obviously the most efficient administrator that's ever lived. Why, you have enough spare time from running SHIELD to become expert in diagnosing mental illness and familiarize yourself with my case files. You've even gotten confident enough in your abilities to disregard the _four years_ I've spent building relationships with your people, and my assessments of which of them _**need regular treatment.**_

 

“Absolutely marvelous.”

 

Fury laughed, short and humorlessly. “Point taken, Doctor. You've got ten hours a week for other assets. The rest of your time, devote to Rogers. It's only temporary. He's not going to need a lot of hand-holding for very long.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

~

 

“So that's the idea, Captain. Want a job?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIPAA is the Health Insurance Portability and Accessibility Act of 1996; a law that among other things, strictly protects the privacy of Americans' health records, including mental health care. It would keep Therese from discussing Steve's issues with Clint, or even telling Steve that Clint sees her on a professional basis. Coulson, not being a health care provider, is under no such restrictions.
> 
> LCD = liquid crystal display; i.e., any modern electronic display screen
> 
> A (cannon) shot across the bows is how ships in the age of piracy issued challenges to each other.


	4. Eye of the Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Workouts, apartment hunting, inappropriate erections, and playing with weapons.

Steve had learned a lot in the past couple of weeks. He was surprised when he found out that Howard Stark had never given up looking for him, and shocked when told about the money Stark had left him. If he wanted to, he could afford to work at nothing but art, just the way he'd used to fantasize when he was a kid.

 

Therese had gotten him set up with identification papers, access to the bank accounts in his name, and some basic shopping. She was even going to help him look for a place in Brooklyn. He was staying in the living quarters at SHIELD until then. He'd agreed to consider working for them while he was getting his bearings, but he wasn't ready for that yet. His time was about equally divided between “cultural acclimation” and history lessons with Therese, wandering the city, and learning about modern soldiering from SHIELD personnel.

 

~

 

Steve was walking into the gym, intending to spend some quality time with the heavy bag, when he noticed Romanov and Barton. It seemed they'd arrived just before him; they were setting down gym bags and shedding foot gear before heading on to one of the sparring mats. He watched them while taping up his hands and split his attention between them and his own workout.

 

Barton was a much better match for Romanov than the three men he'd seen her sparring with previously. He was chatty, acrobatic, and appeared to be enjoying himself. Romanov did, too, smiling and trading quips with him, as they made each other work for each hit. Steve was pummeling the heavy bag with quick jabs when Romanov did some spinning kick thing that was too fast for him to follow. It ended with Barton flat on his back with his head between Romanov's thighs, as she sat on his chest, pinning his arms to the floor with her shins.

 

In his surprise at the move, Steve forgot himself, and hit the bag too hard. The chain broke, and the bag went flying across the gym, heading straight towards the back of an agent spotting her partner's bench-press set. Steve shouted, “Get down!” and dove after the bag. He _just_ caught it, and looked up to see Romanov barreling into the woman from the side and knocking her out of the way, just as she whirled to see what the yelling was about.

 

“Gosh, are you okay?” he asked, kneeling to offer his hand first to the spotter, then Romanov. “I'm so sorry – I should have been more careful.”

 

“Thanks. I'm fine, just a little shaken up,” she replied, getting to her feet. She turned to Romanov and said “ _Thank_ you. I really owe you one, Widow.”

 

“That's all right. I'm pleased you're unharmed,” she answered.

 

The spotter left with her friend, moving gingerly; Romanov hadn't been gentle.

 

Steve looked troubled. “Thank you, Miss Romanov. That bag might have crushed her, _and_ her friend, if you hadn't reached her.”

 

“There's no need to thank me; you caught the bag in time – they were safe. Also, I prefer 'Agent' or 'Ms.' if you require an honorific. Most people just use my last name.” She turned to leave, then said over her shoulder, “How did you know it, by the way? We haven't been introduced.”

 

Barton approached them. “I can fix that. Tasha, this is Steve Rogers. Rogers, Natasha Romanov. There. Now you two can bond over beer while sharing your insights about going through life as epic badasses. C'mon, I'm buying,” he finished, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders.

 

~

 

Steve's jaw dropped. “They want _what???_ ”

 

Therese smiled gamely at the real estate agent. “Excuse us for just a moment, won't you?” She drew Steve into the bedroom.

 

“Of course,” the agent murmured. “Take your time.”

 

“Is she kidding?! That's what they want for _one month's_ _**rent**_? I could buy a _house_ for that much!” Steve huffed, pink and indignant.

 

“Not today, you couldn't,” Therese said quietly. “And please, lower your voice.”

 

“I'm sorry, Therese. I shouldn't have yelled, certainly not at you. But that's just ridiculous!”

 

“Steve, housing prices have gone up, along with everything else, including wages. Remember how much a cup of coffee costs?”

 

He scowled, and rubbed the back of his neck, somewhat mollified. “Well, yeah. I guess I didn't think it through. Is that really a fair price for a place like this?”

 

“I did quite a bit of research before we came out here, and yes, it's just about average for this neighborhood. Now, take a second to imagine the rent as a price you'd consider reasonable. Do you want to live here?”

 

“It _is_ nice, and the light's great. Yeah, I guess I do. Or I would, if they weren't charging an arm and a leg for it.”

 

“Look. You have options. You can keep staying at SHIELD. You could probably find a vermin-infested dump in a neighborhood with a nightly chorus of screams and gunfire for about a third of the price they're asking for this place. Or, you can walk out there, and let me use your outburst as a bargaining chip with the real-estate agent; this apartment has been empty for six months, and the rent's already been reduced. The landlord's probably tired of losing money on the place.”

 

He nodded. “Okay.”

 

She smiled at him. “Right, then. Let's go.”

 

They walked back into the living room, where the agent was on the phone. She made the “one minute” gesture, and wrapped up her call.

 

“Hi, Faye. Sorry about that. Steve's just gotten home after a long deployment overseas; he's a bit out of touch with the current cost of housing in the city. Can you find out if your client's willing to give him a break on price?”

 

The agent shook her head regretfully. “There's not much I can do. That's who I was just talking to.”

 

“I'm really sorry for yelling earlier, ma'am, you just caught me off guard. Would you mind excusing us again for just a minute, please?” Steve said, surprising both women. The agent nodded. He drew Therese aside, and bent over to speak softly in her ear. “I could hear the guy on the phone. He told her to get the place rented at his price today, or he was going to find himself a new agent.”

 

Therese tensed.

 

_Great. Just great. Of course he gets close and whispers in my ear on a day when I'm ovulating. Shut up, you stupid pink bits! It is not time to wake up and smell the pheromones – I'm working, here! Gaaah. Focus, chica._

 

She looked up and nodded at Steve, then moved away from him as she smiled at the real-estate agent.

 

“Faye, will you call your client back and let me speak to him, please?”

 

The agent rolled her eyes and nodded, muttering, “Sure, what have I got to lose?” then dialed.

 

“Hi, Mr. Pirelli? They want to talk to you,” she said, handing her phone to Therese.

 

~

 

Steve tossed and caught the keys to his new apartment, beaming at Therese as he tucked them into his pocket. “You're really somethin' else, you know that? Thank you. I'm awfully grateful for all your help.” Impulsively, he bent to kiss her cheek. He pulled back, all happy and dimpled, then froze, his smile slowly fading as their eyes locked.

 

_Wow. **Jeez** , her skin is soft. And she smells fantastic. Oh, crap. Not now, dammit, not now!! ... Cookie Lavagetto, third base, batting average .277, on base percentage .388.._

 

_~_

 

Coulson ushered Steve into the range master's booth. “Good morning,” he nodded at her. “Agent Abhaya Pahari, meet Captain Steve Rogers. Captain, Agent Pahari is our range master; she's responsible for weapons safety here. Abbie, we need to get the Captain's data into the system.”

 

“Certainly,” she replied, looking up at the men. “If you'll just step over here, Captain. This will only take a few minutes. Here,” she said, handing Steve a pistol after opening and closing the breech in front of him. “As you can see, it's not loaded. Will you please aim that at the wall and squeeze the trigger with your dominant hand?” She rummaged through a drawer while she was speaking, pulling out a blue silicon bracelet with a metal tag, which she placed on her desk next to the computer.

 

He did as instructed.

 

“Good. Switch hands, please. Okay, put it down, and do that all again a couple more times. Now, drop it on the floor, pick it up and do it one last time. Great.” She typed furiously for a couple of minutes, then handed the bracelet to Steve. “Here. Put this on.”

 

He looked mystified, and gave her back the gun. “Put it on what?” he asked.

 

She grinned, and held up her arm, pushing back her sleeve to show off the one she was wearing. “Your wrist. Don't worry – it'll stretch to fit.”

 

Steve did as she said, making a face as the bracelet caught and pulled at the fine hairs on the back of his wrist.

 

“Okay, you're all set.”

 

“Good to know.” He frowned in confusion, glancing between Pahari and Coulson. “Um.. someone care to explain to me what I'm all set _with_?”

 

Coulson's eyes crinkled slightly – he was really enjoying himself. “Our weapons can't be used by anyone else. When you're wearing that bracelet, you're all set to use any SHIELD-issued weapon. Without it, you'd only be able to use a gun we'd issued to you personally.”

 

Steve's eyes widened. “Huh. What happens if someone steals one?”

 

“Nothing,” Pahari said. “That's what the past couple of minutes were about. As you handled the weapon, it was recording details about your grip strength, hand prints, and so on. We've got enough data now about how you handle a weapon to know whether or not you're the one wearing your bracelet. It won't work for anyone else.”

 

Coulson gave her his patented barely-there smile. “Thanks, Abbie.

 

“There are some other interesting differences between SHIELD's weapons and the ones you're used to, Captain. Come on out to the range, and I'll show you.”

 

~

 

They had been shooting for about an hour when it happened.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this chapter was outlined as an '80s training montage, the working title was _Eye of the Tiger_. It didn't quite turn out that way, but that was my earworm while writing, so I kept the title.  
> 
> 
> ~
> 
> Roughly speaking, Americans paid about three years' salary for a house in the early forties. Today, they pay about six years' salary. You could have bought a house in 1940 for the monthly rent on a Greenpoint, Brooklyn apartment advertised in this week's _NY Times._
> 
> ~
> 
> Cookie Lavagetto played third base for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Steve was mentally reciting his statistics for 1941, the year he'd attended the game on the fake broadcast.
> 
> ~
> 
> Abhaya Pahari is a Gorkha name; Gorkhas are a warrior caste in India and Nepal. Abhaya means "fearless." The smart gun technology she and Coulson describe to Steve is based on the work of Biomac Systems and the Biomac Foundation. 


	5. 'Splosions and Nudity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve suffers a flashback while in the weapons range with Coulson. A shower to get rid of the smell from shooting seems in order, and Therese's quarters are most convenient. Blushing ensues.

Steve stood stiffly, trembling, his eyes blank. Coulson gently removed the rifle from his grasp. “Captain? Captain Rogers! Shit.” He waved Pahari over, and gave her the weapon.

 

_Steve was gone. He was back in the winter woods with his guys; hungry, wet, and cold, smelling gunpowder, snow, blood wet wool, and frightened men. The loop kept playing, it wouldn't stop. He kept hearing the explosions, the screams of the Hydra soldiers, and the exultant howling of his Commandos. And then he was there._

 

_On that unnamed mountaintop, getting ready to slide down the wire for the ride of his life. The one that would end up killing his best friend. It wouldn't stop. He was there, running on top of the train, leaping inside, fighting the brute with that huge, crazy weapon. And it wouldn't stop._

 

_He fought his way through to him, like the cavalry in the movies they used to see, just in time to toss Bucky his sidearm when he was cornered and out of ammo. But it wouldn't stop. He dropped his shield, and lay momentarily stunned, watching as Bucky, too damn brave for his own good, picked it up and faced down their enemy. And the bastard blew him out of the train. It wouldn't stop._

 

_He was right there, desperately trying to reach Bucky. Who'd never let him down, not once. His brother, his protector, his hero. The best friend any guy'd ever had. Steve watched as he let him fall. Screaming. And it wouldn't stop._

 

“What's wrong with him?”

 

“Flashback, looks like. Call Durant, get her down here, _now_. And grab Barton, please – I may need his help.”

 

Pahari did as he asked, then left to go revoke Steve's weapons access.

 

Barton came jogging up from his favorite lane at the far end of the range. “Hey, boss. What's the prob..? Uhh-oh. What d'you need?”

 

“Help me get him out of here, Clint.”

 

Steve stood in the hall shivering, staring blankly at nothing, Coulson and Barton on either side of him, quietly trying to talk him down. Durant arrived, out of breath.

 

“Steve. Can you talk to me?” She examined him quickly, noting his rigid stance, tremors, damp brow, dilated pupils, and rapid, shallow breathing. She checked his pulse: it was fast and strong.

 

“What happened?” she asked Coulson.

 

“We were in there for about an hour. He seemed fine. I was showing him changes in weaponry, and he was picking things up quickly. I gave him a sniper rifle to try. He made the shot. Then, he was just.. gone. The way you see him now.”

 

Coulson and Barton hovered. Steve's nostrils flared, briefly. Therese's attention snapped back to the other men. “Christ. You smell like cordite. All three of you. We've got to get him cleaned up in case that was the trigger. Bring him to my place. It's closer than Medical, and the gym would be a nightmare.”

 

There were two people in the elevator when it arrived. “Medical emergency. Out,” Coulson snapped at them. They left hastily, and the others got in. Therese waved her badge at the scanner and pressed the firefighter's button; the elevator went straight to her floor without stopping. Coulson and Barton readjusted the drape of Steve's arms over their shoulders, then hustled him through her door.

 

“The bathroom's through here. Get his shirt, I'll get his shoes. She knelt, pushed his trouser cuffs up, and said, “Oh, crap. He's wearing boots, and the laces are..”

 

_Snick_. Barton pulled a small, very sharp knife from somewhere and offered it to her, hilt first. It sliced through the laces on the first pass, and she handed it back. “Not a problem anymore. Thanks.”

 

Between the three of them, they got Steve's shirt, t-shirt, pants, and boots off. Therese switched on the space heater, then turned the shower on, checking the temperature before saying, “Okay. Get him into the tub.” The men lifted him up as she guided his feet and legs over the edge. She kicked off her shoes and set her glasses on the sink, preparing to get in with him.

 

“What else can we do?” asked Coulson.

 

Throw his stuff in the wash – the machine's in the hall; detergent's on the shelf right above it. Then take off; the smell's on your clothes, too.”

 

“What if he goes violent?”

 

She shook her head. “In the war he's fighting, women were what you fought for, not against. And on some level, he's aware of what's going on around him – he just can't process it. I'll be okay; I really don't think I'm in any danger.”

 

Coulson nodded. “Keep me informed. Do you want us to open the windows before we go?”

 

“Yes! Good idea. Thanks.”

 

“Will do,” he said, turning to leave.

 

“Hey. Gossip girl,” Therese said to Clint, as he also started to go.

 

“Mm?”

 

“Man's from an era when people still had strong boundaries between private and public. It'd be a kindness if you'd use your powers to quell, instead of feed, the rumor mill this time.”

 

He smiled at her. “Consider it done.”

 

“You're a good man, Charlie Brown.”

 

~

Therese lathered her hands, then picked up Steve's one at a time, sliding her fingers through his longer ones, rubbing his palms and the backs of his hands with soap.

 

“Hey, Steve. I know you must be really scared in there. But I need you to come back. You're safe now.”

 

_He made an impossible leap across a pit of fire, because Bucky wouldn't leave without him._

 

After getting his hands clean, she lathered the washcloth, then used it to very carefully wash his face, making sure not to get soap in his unblinking eyes. She tossed it down and reached behind him for the shampoo.

 

_He was locked inside his head, fighting the battles of six months ago, hearing the shouts, the gunfire._

 

“Okay, I'm going to wash your hair now, Steve. This is a little tough – you're a lot taller than I am. Can you turn around for me? No, huh? That's okay. I can manage from where I'm standing.” Therese kept up a near-constant stream of softly voiced words describing what was happening, trying to ground Steve and coax him back.

 

_Back in camp before Bucky went missing, hearing the unending patter of rain falling on his tent.. the soft murmurs of the chorus girls talking to him.. “Steve? Steve?”_

 

He came back to himself standing damn near naked in a shower with a fully dressed Therese up on her toes and pressing against him, her arms around his neck and her fingers in his hair. He groaned and shuddered. Baseball stats weren't going to cut it this time. Steve blinked and looked down at her, cheeks flaming. “Therese? “

 

“Hey, welcome back,” she smiled. Then, “Oh. Um.. I'm going to leave you to finish up in here by yourself, okay?” she said awkwardly, withdrawing her hands and stepping back. She slipped trying to get out of the tub and he reached out to steady her.

 

“Therese, what happened? Where..? What were we doing? How'd I get here? The last thing I remember is being on the weapons range with Coulson.”

 

“Steve, do me a favor, okay? Don't think about that too hard right now. I promise to explain everything once you're out of the shower. For right now, just finish peeling off, and I'll toss your shorts and socks in the wash with the rest of your stuff.”

 

“What? NO!” He blushed even harder, turning his hips away from her.

 

“Steve, it's fine. Don't worry about it. Look. I'm closing my eyes. Just strip 'em off, wring 'em out and hand them to me. That'll be a lot more comfortable than sitting around shivering in wet drawers once you get out. Besides, I don't want you dripping all over my apartment.” Therese stood there facing him, eyes firmly closed, and one hand stuck out, waiting.

 

Steve muttered, “I can't believe I'm doing this,” as he removed the rest of his clothes and handed them over.

 

“Thanks. Take as long as you need. I'm going to go change into dry clothes while you finish getting cleaned up.”

 

Steve finished rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, then reached for the soap, determined to get out quickly and find out what the hell was going on. He was painfully hard, trying not to think about what Therese had looked and felt like with her dress gone all sheer and plastered up against her body while she was plastered against his. He decided against washing his dick; he'd taken a shower that morning, and, much as he needed to, there was no way in hell he was going to jerk off in hers. He was just steeling himself to turn the tap all the way to cold when she knocked on the bathroom door. He squawked.

 

“Aagh!” He cleared his throat. “What is it?”

 

“Clean towel. I grabbed the bath towel when I got out. The only one left in there isn't big enough to go around your waist,” she said through the door, “And I thought you might want your comb. Coulson emptied your pockets before tossing your stuff in the wash.”

 

He turned off the shower and got out, dripping.

 

“May I open the door enough to hand them in?”

 

He didn't say anything, just slid the door open a crack and stuck his hand out. She put his comb in it, then the towel on top.

 

He cleared his throat again, then said, “Thank you,” hoarsely.

 

“You're welcome. Feel free to borrow my bathrobe. It's much too big on me, so it'll probably fit you just fine. I'll leave it on the bed – that's through this door. The other one goes out into the hall. I'll be in the kitchen.”

 

Steve dried off, hastily combed his hair, then wrapped the towel firmly around his waist before opening the door to her bedroom. He shivered as a blast of cool air hit him. He shrugged into the bathrobe, which fit okay. It was dark red, made out of some soft, fluffy stuff, and thankfully not at all girly, so at least he wasn't going to feel like a complete idiot. As his body warmed the fabric, Therese's scent rose, filling his head, which wasn't helping matters at all. He looked down, then tucked his hands in the pockets to pull the thick folds of fabric away from his hips, deciding that it would have to do. He took a deep breath, and walked out into the hall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. It's Not Called Shell Shock Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese begins explaining to Steve how he ended up in her shower. He's less than thrilled.

Steve followed his nose to find Therese in the kitchen. She looked up at him in the door, then used the knife she'd been chopping with to clear the cutting board into a pot, and gave the contents a stir before covering it. “Hi. Just give me a sec, okay?” She cleaned and put the knife away, then took the lid off a smaller pot that had just started steaming, and poured something golden brown into two huge mugs. “It's a bit chilly in here, so I made mulled cider. D'you want some rum in yours?”

“Um.. I can't get drunk.”

She looked at him steadily. “I wasn't offering to get you drunk. It just tastes nice, if you happen to like rum. Want some?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“Okay. Here,” she said, handing him a mug. “Careful. It's really hot.”

“Thanks. It smells good,” he said.

She smiled, and walked past him out into the living room. Steve followed, quickly looking everywhere else but her rump, which was thinly covered by light grey, clingy pajama-looking pants. She was wearing a blue sweater on top, and her hair was tucked up in a messy bun with a stick through it, loose wisps curling damply around the back of her neck and ears. He could see much the same taste and personality expressed in this room as in her office, although the office was tidier.

Therese curled up at one end of the couch, gesturing him to the other with her mug. Steve set his mug down on the coffee table, so he could keep both hands on the robe as he sat. He picked up his cider and took a sip, noticing her shapely bare feet through the steam. His prick twitched – they were alluring, the nails painted a deep red, and she wore a silver ring on one toe. He blushed, hastily putting the mug down, then casually pulled one of the cushions onto his lap, hugging it as he turned back to her.

“You said you'd explain,” he said. “Why was I in your shower?”

Therese nodded, and reached over to hand him his cider again. “Here. Just hold onto this and sip if you feel like it while we talk, okay?”

Steve frowned, puzzled, but said, “Sure.”

“In the shower you said the last thing you remembered was being in the weapons range with Coulson, and then I asked you not to think about that too hard,” she said.

“Yes..?”

“You lost some time. You were stuck somewhere in your head, probably reliving a memory.”

Steve frowned. “I lost time,” he repeated. “I blacked out on the weapons range?”

“Yes.”

His frown deepened to a scowl. “I have shell shock?”

Therese took a sip of her cider. “It's not called that any more. But you might, yes.”

Steve looked at her searchingly for a long few seconds. “Did you know this was going to happen? Is that why you're the one who was assigned to be my 'tour guide'?”

Therese held his gaze. “No. We knew it was a possibility, but we didn't _know_ it was going to happen to you. The possibility that it might _was_ one of the reasons I was chosen.”

Steve put his mug down. “So you lied to me that first day.”

“I've never lied to you, Steve.”

“You said I didn't need a psychiatrist.”

“You didn't. And you don't.. not for any of the things we've done together so far.”

“But I do now,” he said bitterly. “I'm cracking up.”

“No. You're not. To my knowledge, you've experienced a single instance of _one_ of the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. That's the modern name for shell shock. It's a mouthful, so we generally call it PTSD. It affects a lot of people, not just soldiers. And it's treatable.”

“That's your specialty, right? You said you had a lot of experience working with people who'd lived through traumatic events. That's what you meant.”

“Yes,” she said evenly.

He flushed. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That this would happen to me,” he said, looking away from her.

“Two reasons. I didn't know that it _was_ going to happen to you. And there are some studies suggesting that trying to prevent symptoms before they occur may actually cause some people who wouldn't have otherwise developed PTSD to get it.”

“Like someone stepping on a land mine because he's trying to avoid walking into a minefield?”

“Pretty much. Or at least that's the case for enough people that we no longer routinely offer treatment before any symptoms arise. My judgment call was to hope it didn't happen to you, but be available in case you did turn out to want my professional help.”

“What if I don't?”

Therese shrugged. “Assuming you still want me as your friendly native tour guide to the twenty-first century, we'll just continue what we've been doing so far. If not, someone else will be assigned to help you with the same sorts of things. No one is going to try to force anything on you that you don't want. If you're not interested in my professional help, though, I really hope you'll allow me to give you a couple of tips and loan you some books, just in case you want them. I'll worry about you, otherwise.”

Steve hugged the cushion to his chest, the erection he'd grabbed it to camouflage nothing but a memory. He gave her an apprehensive look. “Am I.. am I dangerous?” he asked quietly.

Therese moved closer and took his hand. “The way you mean? No. I haven't seen anything to make me think so.” She smiled. “You're dangerous to folks like Johann Schmidt. But I honestly don't think you're going to end up hurting anyone you don't intend to.”

“What did you mean when you said you'd worry about me, then?”

She squeezed his hand gently, then moved back to her side of the couch. “Just that. I like you a lot, Steve. I care about you, and I've come to think of you as a good friend even though we haven't known each other that long. And I saw you suffering. Locked in your own head, stuck feeling the particular kind of pain that I've chosen to spend my life helping people learn to control. I can't help you if you don't want me to; if that's how you feel, I'll respect it, and won't give you a hard time about the issue.

She sighed. “Look, say I had a husband who beat me – a guy you could flatten or put the fear of God into in a heartbeat. But you had to watch me walk away with a black eye after I told you I didn't want your help, and that I needed to deal with it by myself. You'd worry about me, right?”

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat, and nodded.

“Well, that's what I meant.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Therese gives Steve the cider to serve as a strong sensory focus; she doesn't want their conversation to trigger another episode.
> 
> ~
> 
> A type of talk therapy used to be offered routinely following experience of a traumatic event, as a preventive measure against PTSD. There _are_ studies showing that particular kind of treatment can induce PTSD in people who wouldn't otherwise have developed it, and the American Psychological Association now recommends against it. 


	7. Appetites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Therese have dinner together. She's worried about him possibly having to wake up and deal with a nightmare by himself. He agrees to spend the night at SHIELD, and come wake her up to talk if he needs to. Steve takes matters into his own hands as he gets ready to go to sleep.

Steve agreed to let Therese help him at least as far as giving him whatever information she thought he needed. But he wanted some time to think about the idea of seeing her on a professional basis.

The washer and dryer finished their cycles while they talked. Steve gratefully retrieved his clothes and dressed, feeling much more comfortable in his skin once it was covered as usual. Therese apologized for wrecking his shoelaces, and he set about knotting them into a serviceable state as she finished getting dinner ready.

They sat and ate companionably, Steve polishing off three bowls of beef stew, all but two of the biscuits, an apple, a pear, and a sizable hunk of cheddar. He pushed back from the table, flushing, and started to apologize, “I'm sorry.. I'm an awfully expensive dinner guest.”

Therese shook her head and said, smiling, “Please. Don't apologize. What you are is an awfully gratifying dinner guest. I love to cook, but it's very hard motivating myself to make much effort if I'm going be the only one eating.”

Steve looked surprised. “Really?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Why? If I could make food like this, I'd do it every day.”

She shrugged. “Cooking is a hobby I'm serious about, and I've spent a lot of time and effort studying to improve. I've gotten a lot of out of it; the pleasures of learning and creating something new, and all the ways good food pleases the senses. But the heart of it, the part of cooking that really feeds my soul.. is feeding other people. I get a deep joy from sharing food I've made with people I care about. Like any other art form, cooking _can_ be done for its own sake, but it becomes a whole lot more meaningful when there's an audience.

“Anyway, if you want to learn how to make food like this, I can teach you. It's not hard.”

“What about all that time and effort studying?”

“I did that because I enjoyed it. You wouldn't need to learn everything I know about cooking to be able to make food like what we had for dinner.”

“Huh. You know, I might take you up on that. It'd be really nice to eat like this every night.”

~

After clearing away the leftovers and dishes from dinner, Steve and Therese headed up to her office to get the books she wanted to loan him. Steve stood where he could play with the mobile; behind and slightly off to one side of her as she stretched to reach a book on the top shelf. Therese's sweater rode up, and he swallowed hard, reminded by the sweet curve of bare waist and hip that he'd had no opportunity for relief since the shower.

Therese came down a little awkwardly from her stretch, and dropped the book. They both started to bend at once to pick it up, but she thought better of it partway through, and stopped. “You know, it's really embarassing how often I've returned the kindness of someone trying to be nice to the clumsy girl by smashing heads with the person helping. Thanks,” she said, a little breathlessly, as he stood back up and handed to her.

_Dammit, woman, just **stop** crushing on him and put your professional panties on. So what if he's sweet, smart, and gorgeous? He's still in a heap of hurting, and the man needs your help a hell of a lot more than he needs your legs wrapped around his hips – anyone can give him that._

She gave the book back, since she'd been getting it down for him anyway. “Steve, is there anyone you could ask to spend the night with you tonight?”

His ears turned pink, and he gave her a wide-eyed, unbelieving stare. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, gosh, sorry,” she said hastily. “I'm not asking about your romantic status – which is absolutely none of my business, by the way. I meant, do you have a friend you could ask to spend the night on your couch.”

His face cleared. “Oh.” Then he frowned, saying, “No. Not really. Why?”

“It would be a good idea, since you said you've been having the occasional nightmare. You got a whole lot of stress dumped on you today, and that tends to make everything worse. It'd really be better if there was someone else around to talk with, just in case you woke up in an especially bad state.”

He shrugged. “A few bad dreams never killed anyone. Besides, there isn't anyone to ask. I'll be okay.”

“What about staying at Medical? Would you be willing to do that?”

He thought about it for a moment, realizing he wouldn't have the privacy to jerk off, which he _really_ , _really_ needed to do if he was going to have a chance in hell of sleeping tonight. He shook his head, saying, “Nah, I'd never be able to relax enough to get to sleep there. Too many people buzzing around, and it smells weird.”

_Ha. It wasn't even a fib._

Therese chewed on her lower lip, and looked up at him worriedly.

_No. He shouldn't be without support tonight, but you are NOT going to invite him to stay at your place. He'd never fit on the couch, and he'd refuse to put you out of your own bed, and, well, shit. The cheesy porn just writes itself. It's just too dangerous._

“How about spending the night in one of the unoccupied billets here?” She glanced at her watch. “Everyone in Housing has probably gone home by now, but Coulson always works too late. He could assign you quarters for the night.”

Steve considered the suggestion. “Yeah, I could do that,” he said slowly. “But how would that be any different from going home and sleeping in my own bed? I'd still be by myself.”

She nodded. “Yes, but I'd be right nearby. If you woke up in a bad state, you could come talk to me.”

Steve flushed, and made a face, ducking his head and rubbing the short hair near the nape of his neck. “I'm not a kid. I can't wake you up in the middle of the night to hold my hand just because I had a bad dream.”

Therese touched his hand lightly, and cocked her head, waiting for him to look at her. When he did, she said softly, “Not even if I told you I'm going to spend most of the night worrying if you don't say you will?”

He sighed, and shook his head, saying, “You fight dirty,” with a wry smile. “Are you _sure_ you're not Catholic?”

~

Steve was all set for the night. The temporary billets were kept well stocked with everything an agent in flux might need; electronics, SHIELD sweats in various sizes, linens, first aid, toiletries, and basic pantry items, with laundry rooms on each floor. Coulson had found him an empty room a few floors up from Therese's office, and arranged it so the door would open to Steve's ID.

Steve was going to take the stairs, but waited for the elevator with Therese. “Okay. I'll keep my phone next to the bed. Just give me a call first if you need to head down, so I'll have a minute to wake up and get coherent.” She looked up and gave him a small smile. “Thanks for doing this, Steve. I really will sleep better knowing you're close by.”

He nodded. “It's okay.” Her elevator arrived, and she walked in. “Therese?”

“Hm?” she said, holding the door.

“Thanks for worrying about me. It's.. it's nice,” he said softly.

She smiled at him fondly. “Good night, Steve.”

“Night.”

~

Steve spent several hours reading. He'd done some research online, frustrated by his inability to type with more than two fingers, and gotten a few chapters in to one of the books Therese had given him, before he couldn't concentrate any more, and decided it was time to hit the sack. He used the bathroom and washed up, making faces at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth.

He checked in the closet, and found some sweats that looked about right, tossing them on the foot of the bed. Then he undressed, neatly folding and draping his clothes over the chair near the door. He looked at the sweatpants and decided not to bother yet, noticing the thoughtful placement of a box of tissues on the bedside table.

Naked, he turned the covers back and climbed into bed. Lying on his back, Steve closed his eyes and let his mind wander, replaying the scenes with Therese earlier that day, using them as a starting point for where he wanted to go.

_He came to in the shower, Therese's dress gone slick and see-through, her arms around his neck and her fingers in his hair. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in tight, one hand cupping her ass, the other sliding into her hair as he kissed her. She opened her mouth under his, shivering and arching her back, pressing her tits against him as he traced her lips with his tongue._

Steve's dick was stiffening fast. He licked his right fingertips, and slid both hands down, firmly wrapping his left around the base then using his slickened fingers to quickly slide his foreskin back and forth, skinning and covering the head repeatedly.

_Still kissing, he picked her up, turning to press her back up against the wall, sliding his hands down to tug her dress up around her waist, and her legs up around his. She moaned and locked her legs in place, and he pulled his hands back to cup her tits, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples, hard points visible through thin wet silk and the lace of her bra. He held Therese pinned there with his chest and hips, rubbing his cock against her, feeling the roughness of her hair and her slit opening against him through their soaked underwear._

Steve's cock was starting to weep, slippery juices tickling the slit as they seeped out. He let out a soft groan as he swept it up with his first two fingers, rubbing it into the sensitive notch on the underside of the head. He used his left hand for a few more long, firm, slow strokes up from the base and back down again, twisting as he went.

_Therese curled up on the other end of the couch, tucking her pretty bare feet up on the cushions. Steve knelt, leaned over, and pulled them out from under her, retreating back to his end with them in his hands. He faced her, sitting back cross-legged, and pulled her feet into his lap. She looked over at him with surprise, her mouth open to object, then her eyes glazed over and she let out a whimper as he cupped her left foot between both hands and started firmly rubbing her instep._

_He took his time, using all the tricks he'd learned from a chorus full of girls with feet sore from dancing in high heels. When she was lying on her back moaning, he firmly slid her feet up his chest, and wrapping an arm around her legs to be safe, bent his head and flicked his tongue over her toes. She gasped as he sucked them into his mouth, licking and nibbling as he watched her shiver and flush._

_She opened her eyes wide and looked at him, moaning his name. “Steve.. oh, God, please..” He released her feet with a last gentle stroke, and leaned over, clasping her hands to pull her up and over onto his lap. He bent his knees and spread them wide, her hips settling down over him as he slid his hands up the smooth bare skin of her back under her top._

Steve shivered, panting, his balls tightening as he gently cupped and rubbed them with his left hand, his right flying up and down his cock. He was close.

_Therese sat on his lap and squirmed, moaning and kissing him. She clutched at his shoulders, and rubbed herself off against his hard dick, trapped between their bodies and feeling her heat and wetness soaking through his shorts. His hand slid up her knickers to feel her hot smooth ass clenching as she moved. Maisie bit his shoulder to muffle her screams as she came, the sound and feel setting him off, sweet hot relief jetting against his belly._

Steve moaned loudly, gently squeezing his balls on the final hard stroke of his cock, feeling turned inside out as he came, squirting all over his stomach and chest. He lay there panting for a few minutes, coming down slowly and remembering Maisie and the few times they'd fooled around together. He wiped the mess up off his skin and tossed the tissues in the trash, then pulled on the sweatpants and curled up hugging the pillow.

He drifted off to sleep missing Peggy and thinking about Therese.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's fantasies are influenced by his previous sexual experience. He hasn't had a lot, but he's definitely not an innocent. As he gets close, the line between imagination and memory blurs. Sorry if the different name is jarring.


	8. Surprising No One..

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has a nightmare. He tells Therese about it, but declines to have her treat him. Fury is a jerk.

Steve woke with wet eyes and a stuffy nose. He realized what the dream had meant, and reached for his phone.

  
The bouncy opening notes of _In The Mood_ woke Therese, who was sleeping hard, worn out from her day. She flailed, knocking the phone off her nightstand, then switched the lamp on to find it. Hanging half out of the bed to pick it up, she grunted. “Ugh.” The music kept playing. “Hi, Steve. Sorry it took so long to pick up; I dropped the phone.”

  
He spoke quietly. “Hi, Therese. I'm sorry to wake you. But.. I had a dream I should probably talk to you about.”

  
“No apologies necessary. I'm glad you called. See you in a minute.”

  
She headed into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face and brush her teeth, relying on her usual morning routine to fool herself into thinking it was time to be awake. The doorbell rang before she was done. She answered the door with the toothbrush still sticking out of her mouth. She used expressive eyebrows and head gestures to greet him, trusting Steve to figure out that he was welcome, should sit down and she'd be right back once she was done brushing.

  
She returned with a damp face, sans toothbrush. “Sorry about that. Mint wakes me up, and I thought it would take you a little longer to get down here. I'm going to put the kettle on. Would you like some tea?”

  
Steve stood up quickly as she entered the room. “Um.. sure. Thank you.” He hovered in the doorway, watching as Therese moved surely around the kitchen. She was wearing the red bathrobe he'd borrowed earlier, which really was much too big for her. The cuffs of the sleeves covered her fingers so that she had to keep pushing them up, and it was impossible to tell what she was wearing under it, except that it didn't include a brassiere. Her hair was in a loose, messy braid, and she was barefoot again. Steve flushed and pulled his eyes away from her feet.

  
A timer went off, and she pulled the infuser out of the teapot, swearing under her breath as she burnt her fingers on the hot metal. She stirred the tea and poured out two mugs, handing one to Steve, then took her own and sat down at the dining table as he joined her.  
“So. You want to tell me about your dream?” she asked.

  
Steve frowned, and took a sip. “If I tell you what I dreamed about.. that won't be.. it won't mean you're my psychiatrist, will it?”

  
Therese wrapped her hands around her mug, and raised it just enough to sniff at the steam, shaking her head. “Nope. Not unless you want it to. If you've decided you want my professional help, we can start a therapeutic relationship, but unless we've arranged to do that, you're just talking to your friend Therese.”

  
Steve nodded. “Okay. Just as friends, then.”

  
“Absolutely,” she agreed.

  
“I don't remember all of it,” he began in a low tone. “What woke me up, though.. I was back on the train with Bucky, just before he was about to fall, reaching out for his hand, and.. and he changed. Suddenly it wasn't him there anymore. It was Peggy, instead. I was trying to reach her, and she was the one who fell, not Bucky. Then I woke up. I..” his voice softened further and got husky. “I guess I was crying in my sleep. My face was wet and my nose was all clogged when I woke up.”

  
Therese looked at him sympathetically, reaching across the table to take his hand. “That sounds like a pretty rotten way to wake up. How did you..?” Then she bit her lip and shook her head.

  
Steve raised his eyes. “What?”

  
“Sorry,” she replied, looking sheepish. “It can be hard to ignore my training, sometimes. I was starting to ask the sort of question I'd put to a client, instead of just listening like a friend. What else do you want to tell me about it?”

  
Steve's face went through a complicated set of expressions: first sad, then shy, then simultaneously embarrassed and determined. Staring into his mug, he said, “Well, I think I know what it means.”

  
“That can be helpful,” she said, encouragingly. When he didn't say anything else, she asked, “Did you want to tell me about what it means, or would you rather keep that to yourself?”

  
He swallowed hard, looked up at her, and said, “It means Peggy's gone, and I have to let go of the idea of her. I need to stop wishing for what I can't have.”

  
Therese met his gaze. “You're right,” she said softly. “Everything you said is true – and like a lot of truths, none of it's easy to face. You're not hiding from it, though” She squeezed his hand. “You're a brave man, Steve. A lot of people spend their whole lives trying to avoid pain.” She paused. “Emotional courage is a valuable gift. Hm. No, forget I said that. No one _gives_ you courage. Everyone has to find it on their own.”

  
Steve's cheeks colored. He took a deep breath. “Yeah, well. About that. I did some research online and I started one of the books you gave me before I went to bed tonight. And I think you were right. It's probably a good idea for me to talk to someone professionally.”

  
Therese nodded, and took a sip of her tea.

  
“But I'm pretty sure I don't want it to be you.”

  
She looked up, surprised. “Okay. Pretty sure? I mean, it's fine, if you'd rather see someone else.”

  
Steve dropped his eyes, rubbing at the back of his head. He started to speak, still staring at the table, then, obviously steeling himself, shook his head a little, and raised his eyes to meet Therese's.  “Yeah. I am pretty sure. I.. I like you, Therese.”

  
A puzzled look flashed across her face, and was gone. Then she smiled. “Good to know. I like you, too. That's actually _necessary_ for therapy, though. Well, for you to like your therapist, anyway; you shouldn't even bother trying with someone you don't feel comfortable with.”

  
His flush deepened from a rosy pink to post-beach-Irish. “I know that,” he muttered.

  
“Then why do you think you don't want..? You know what? Never mind. You don't need to tell me why you'd rather see another therapist.”

  
Steve looked at her earnestly, face, neck, and ears red. “Yes. I do.”

  
“No. Really, it's none of my business, and I shouldn't have asked.”

  
Steve took a deep breath in through his nose, and let it out slowly. “Therese, is it true that you're not allowed to be romantically involved with your clients?”

  
She blinked, mouth slightly open, then seemed to recover. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That would be a serious breach of professional ethics. I could lose my license.”

  
He held her gaze. “Well, I was kind of hoping you'd be willing to go out with me some time. And.. seeing you professionally would pretty much put the kibosh on that, wouldn't it?”

  
Therese flushed, and softly said, “Yes.”

  
Steve nodded. “So I'd rather see someone else.” He shot her a nervous glance. “Unless..?” Then he raised his chin firmly, and asked, “Therese, may I take you out to dinner?”

~

  
In Fury's office the next afternoon, Therese squirmed under the weight of his eye. “Doctor Durant, have you mistaken me for one of your girlfriends? Is there some particular _reason_ you felt you needed to share with me the fact that you're going on a date with Captain Rogers?”

  
She winced, and cleared her throat. “Yes. My assignment was to help Steve get culturally acclimated and be available if he needed my professional help.”

  
“I'm aware of that, Doctor. I did sign off on your assignment as Captain Rogers' liaison, or had you forgotten?”

  
Therese took a deep breath. “No. I haven't forgotten,” she said softly. “In light of yesterday's incident in the weapons range, he agrees with my suggestion that it would probably be a good idea for him to start seeing a therapist. But he doesn't want it to be me because of the potential breach of ethics.”

  
“Is that what he said?” asked Fury.

  
“Not exactly. The words he used were that he was 'pretty sure' he didn't want it to be me treating him. Then he asked if it was true that I'm not allowed to get romantically involved with my clients. When I told him that's right, he said he'd rather see someone else. And then he asked me out.”

  
“I see,” Fury replied. “Well, why are you here, Doctor? You're both adults. You don't need my blessing to go out with the man.”

  
Therese gritted her teeth. _Jerk. He's just getting back at you for standing up for yourself earlier. Don't let him irritate you._

  
Quietly, she said, “No. I don't. I did think you should know. It was Steve's decision to not make use of my professional services. But since you told me to dedicate eighty percent of my working hours to him, it seemed inappropriate not to inform you that we'd be dating. You might have wanted to reassign me in view of the new information.”

  
“Are your feelings going to get in the way of helping him catch up with the world?”

  
“No.”

  
“Does Rogers want you reassigned?”

  
“He didn't say anything to make me think so.”

  
“Then we're done, Doctor. Please keep me informed of anything I _need_ to know.”

~

  
Fury chuckled to himself as the door closed behind her, then picked up his phone. “Hey, Cheese? You owe me fifty bucks.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Therese stopped herself from asking Steve "How did you feel?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, and is unbetaed. Criticism and bringing copy editing mistakes to my attention are both most welcome!
> 
> ~
> 
> Standard disclaimer: I didn't create these characters, and am not making any money off of this. Please don't sue me for providing free advertising. Disclaimer aside, _Captain America: The First Avenger_ is very briefly quoted at the beginning of this work. I believe this falls under fair use, but have no objection to removing the quoted material if necessary.


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